Chapter Text
* * *
The pair exited out onto the bridge, Glal following as Trujillo made her way to the captain’s chair that Lt. Jarrod was just vacating.
Trujillo’s presence triggered a chime to sound, prompting Jarrod to announce, “Captain on the bridge.”
“As you were,” Trujillo said, forestalling those personnel at non-critical stations rising and coming to attention. “Sitrep.”
“No signs of the Jem’Hadar vessel on sensors, sir,” Jarrod advised as he moved to resume his place at the Tactical station.
“Maintain sensor sweeps and see if we can’t find a warp or impulse trail leading away from here,” Trujillo ordered. “Any sign of intact escape craft?”
DeSilva fielded that query. “Negative, sir. It appears two escape vehicles were launched, but they were destroyed in close proximity to the freighter’s remains.”
“Trujillo to Engineering, have you completed the simulations on the shield modifications?”
Kura-Ka’s slightly digitized voice replied, “Affirmative, Captain. The generators have been re-tuned to operative at a higher phase range. This will utilize more power and will increase the strain on the generators themselves, sir, so we’ll want to activate shields only when combat is imminent.”
“Understood. Good work, Commander.”
The bridge doors opened to admit Commander Chester and Lieutenant J’etris. The two women looked at the debris, then at each other, grim. “It’s very likely they’re still in the area, sir,” said Chester. “They like to jump any would-be rescuers while they’re preoccupied looking for survivors.”
Trujillo appeared equally somber. “And despite our general warning of an aggressor ship in the area, this is still a high-traffic region with a lot of merchant ships in transit.”
Chester looked around at the Reykjavík’s bridge and spent a moment really absorbing the sheer surrealness of the experience. She’d stood on a holodeck recreation of this bridge, running through some of the Reykjavík’s battles, as she had with other battles and other starships. That had been early in the war, when she’d thought she could study for battle, as if viewing saving lives like an exam score would make it any easier to fail. Even when she learned it didn’t help, not that much, she’d kept coming back to the Reykjavík, a ship made for battle in every way she wasn’t.
The surreal part wasn’t so much standing here. It was what was waiting for them, out there. It had never occurred to her to run any of the historical simulations against the Jem’Hadar.
Garrett looked up from her sensor displays at the Science station. “There are still dozens of vessels out here, sir. They must have thought Starfleet was exaggerating the threat this ship poses.”
“You can’t fix stupid,” Glal growled in response.
DeSilva touched a hand to hear earpiece comms receiver. “Sir, I’m getting a priority signal over several of the general distress frequencies. A Caitian transport vessel, the Ull’roall, says they’re under attack from an unidentified vessel. They say the attacker’s cut through their shields like they aren’t there.” DeSilva stiffened noticeably, her expression hardening. “They say they’re carrying over four-hundred passengers, crew of twenty-nine.”
“Time to intercept at max warp,” Trujillo asked curtly.
“Twenty-seven minutes, Captain,” Naifeh dutifully replied.
“Plot course and execute at best possible speed,” she ordered, toggling the intra-craft on her armrest interface. “Trujillo to Commander Kura-Ka, I need you to give me every bit of speed you can squeeze from your engines for the next half hour.”
“Understood, sir. You’ll have it,” the chief engineer promised before closing the channel.
“Ops, tell the Caitians we’re coming and to hold on. Is there any place they can run to where they can hide?” Trujillo’s grim demeanor had grown flinty, the Starfleet officer in her warring with the soldier who was, for the moment, helpless to defend her charges.
She looked to Chester and J’etris. “Any chance they’ll last until we get there?”
Chester looked at J’etris. “If they can find somewhere to hide, yes,” said J’etris, her voice very flat, and she left the second part unspoken.
“Sir, Ull’roall reports their warp engines have already been disabled. They’re on impulse power and report multiple hull breaches. They’re…” she swallowed, “they’re pleading for assistance, sir.”
Something had closed down behind Chester’s eyes, an icy calm. “We need the Jem’Hadar to pay attention to us,” she said. “We’re a bigger threat, and they’ll break off as soon as we’re an imminent threat. So we need to be imminent, not a threat that arrives in half-an-hour.”
Trujillo glanced at Glal, who shook his head silently in response. A similar gesture met her gaze from Jarrod. They were too far away. Not enough speed, not enough time.
J’etris looked at them, and then at Chester, and shook her head. Chester’s mouth went tight. She looked down at the PADD in her hands, her fingers briefly skimming over the surface–still looking for another option, even if it was doomed. Find a way to appear as if they were arriving sooner, no; they didn’t have the technology to do that even in her time. Broadcast a lie about having a VIP aboard; too easily dismissed as a falsehood, even if the Jem’Hadar were still acting rationally. Jem’Hadar didn’t rise to taunts or insults, so simply broadcasting hey ugly, come and get us wasn’t going to work, either. After a few moments, she lowered it, having found no more solution than anyone else had. Her expression had not changed at all.
Garrett looked up from her scopes with an expression of surprise. “Sir, sensors have detected a Munro-class vessel inbound, transponder ID’s it as a Border Service cutter, the Greyhound. She’s on an intercept course for Ull’roall and the Jem’Hadar.”
“Damn it!” Trujillo pounded a fist on her armrest. “I told Command to get all our ships out of the area.” She gestured to Ops as DeSilva threw a glance back at her. “Get me that ship on comms,” Trujillo ordered.
“Channel open, sir.”
“Reykjavík to Greyhound, change course. You are moving to engage an advanced threat vessel with weapons that negate Starfleet shields. You have no chance against that ship. I repeat, break off.”
The viewscreen flickered and the bridge crew was treated to the image of the smaller, more compact bridge of the cutter. Seated in the captain's chair was an older male human with thinning gray hair and a well-trimmed beard of a slightly darker hue. He was clad in a variation of the standard maroon uniform jacket with a stylized combadge bearing the crossed anchors and circular life-preserver of the Border Service set atop the traditional arrowhead.
“This is Captain August Blakley of the Greyhound. I’m aware of the threat ship’s potency, and of Starfleet Command’s chickenshit orders. Regardless, I’m not going to hole up at some star-station while vulnerable civilian ships are being picked off by these bastards. And our sensors indicate that you’re screaming in here at top speed, so who are you to tell me to back off?”
“I’m Nandi Trujillo of Reykjavík, Captain. We’ve just received shield modifications that took us hours to implement that will hopefully give us an edge against this ship. I’m not questioning your crew’s skill or bravery, there’s just very little chance you’d come out on top in such a contest.”
“I appreciate your concern, Captain Trujillo, but despite the odds I’m not going to sit here and watch these people be slaughtered. Hopefully, we can keep this threat vessel occupied until you’ve arrived on scene. We’ll run interference for the transport for as long as we’re able.”
Someone nearby announced they were now within weapon’s range and Blakley cast a glance back at his crew before returning his gaze to the viewer. “Looks like this is about to kick off.”
“Captain Blakley, I suggest you focus your efforts on rescue operations for the freighter’s passengers and crew,” said Chester. “As Captain Trujillo has said, your shields and weapons won’t do you much good there, but you are there, and if you can start pulling people out, that’s something we can’t do just now.”
“Open fire!” Blakley called to his Tactical officer in the background before addressing Chester. “I’d considered that, but this attacker has the edge in maneuverability and speed at impulse. We have to keep moving and the transport’s shields are still up. If you can give me so–”
The image jerked and there was a flash in the background as a bridge console erupted in a shower of sparks and debris before the transmission cut out abruptly. Chester let out a heavy breath.
“There was nothing we could have given him that would have turned the battle in the last thirty seconds, sir,” said J’etris to her softly.
DeSilva’s voice was tempered with resignation. “Greyhound has engaged the Jem’Hadar ship, sir. They’re in close proximity, and I’m reading a lot of weapons activity.”
“For what it’s worth, Captain,” Garrett observed from her station, “it’s taken the heat off the transport ship. They’re trying to egress the area at impulse while the attack ship’s engaged with Greyhound.”
Trujillo threw a look towards the Bedivere officers. “Lieutenant J’etris, please take the auxiliary tactical station and assist Mister Jarrod with weapons control during our engagement. Commander Chester, please take the station opposite that of Mister Glal so that I’m afforded both your counsel.”
“Aye sir,” said J’etris, heading for the station and quickly familiarizing herself with its layout.
“Yes sir,” said Chester, finally fully turning her attention from her futile efforts to rescue the transport and the Greyhound and taking the station indicated. She wanted to keep trying. It went dead against her every instinct to stop, but right now her attention needed to be on the Reykjavík and keeping this crew alive.
The hollow feeling was at least familiar, and something she could put aside until the battle was over. She fixed her eyes on the main viewer, willing with all her might the little indicators of the Federation ships not to go out. This was far worse than being on the Bedivere, where she at least had more to do, worse still because none of these people should have ever been in the front lines of this war, not even Captain Trujillo, the happy soldier.
The minutes seemed to take an excruciating eternity to pass, with the nearly unbearable tension broken only by intermittent reports from Ops and Sciences.
“Reading diminished power signature from Greyhound, sir. She’s losing speed and maneuverability. Detecting debris and radiation leakage in her wake,” DeSilva indicated.
From Garrett, “Transport has achieved three-quarters impulse speed, still drawing away from the Jem’Hadar and heading in our direction.”
“ETA now thirteen minutes, thirty seconds,” Nafieh reported.
Chester ran through the modifications they’d made to Reykjavík again, standard Jem’Hadar tactics. They had time to consider their approach; was there any further information she could provide? No, she was forced to concede, there was not. She had been thorough in compiling the briefing material for the Reykjavík’s crew. She wished for a moment she had been less so; she passionately wanted something to do, other than sit here and wait for all those people to die.
Trujillo directed a text message to Chester’s console. ‘This is where your command persona comes into it. You’ll have to sit here, with nothing to do but hear reports, and remain the steady hand on the tiller for your crew’s emotional state, regardless of what you’re actually feeling.’
A flicker of grim amusement broke through Chester’s cool facade. She glanced at Trujillo, barely turning her head, and typed her reply. ‘Thank you, sir. But with all respect–this sucks!’
In lieu of mordant laughter, Trujillo cleared her throat, struggling to maintain her almost-in-battle face. She turned towards Chester, speaking in a voice aimed at her alone. “It always has, and it always will.”
Chester nodded, glad of the acknowledgement and the half-moment of levity.
“Explosion, sir, in the twelve-isoton range. Some kind of missile weapon impacted Greyhound. I’m seeing a debris cloud at her last known coordinates, gamma and theta radiation… no escape vehicles detected.” Garrett’s face was a mask of cold professionalism as she delivered the news, her expression remaining carefully neutral so as not to betray the roiling emotions beneath.
Chester closed her eyes a half-moment longer than a blink, letting out a long breath, all the reaction she allowed herself. She’d seen that before, too many times.
The bridge fell silent at this unwelcome announcement, however expected it may have been.
“Status of the transport? Distance from the Jem’Hadar?” Trujillo pressed.
“Transport is at five-hundred thousand kilometers from the attack ship and is maintaining three-quarters impulse. She’s still leaking radiation and I’m detecting thermal variances in her warp reactor,” DeSilva observed.
“She’s running hot, sir,” called the petty officer manning the Engineering station. “Unless they throttle back, they’re in danger of triggering an emergency shutdown of their core or causing an overload.”
Trujillo shifted impatiently in her seat. “Helm, will we reach them before the Jem’Hadar?”
“If both ships maintain the same speed and course, that’s affirmative, sir.”
No sooner had the words left Naifeh’s mouth when the attack ship's position on the tactical plot map shifted drastically and almost instantaneously.
“Warp jump,” DeSilva called out. “They executed a short range jump at warp and are now within firing range of the transport.”
Trujillo bit back a frustrated curse, checking her armrest display for their updated intercept point with the transport. Seven minutes away yet. Too long. She toggled open a channel to Engineering.
“Commander Kura-Ka, we need everything you can give us, short of tearing the nacelles from their struts.”
There was a pregnant pause before the Chief Engineer replied, “Reactor now at one-hundred-twelve percent of rated output, Captain. There will be damage to the injectors and field coils.”
“Understood, and thank you.” She cut the channel. “Helm?”
“Now at warp twelve-point-seven, sir. Revised ETA three minutes, eight seconds.”
The crew could feel the strain on the ship through the vibration in the deck plates as Reykjavík came just short of tearing herself apart in her race towards the stricken passenger vessel.
“Weaps,” Trujillo called to both Jarrod and J’etris and the standing tactical consoles flanking her command chair, “I want a full barrage of torpedoes ready to fly the instant we drop out of warp, provided the Jem’Hadar ship is far enough away from the transport. If it’s too close, we’ll stick to phasers until we can pry the enemy away and allow for photorp deployment. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jarrod replied simply.
“Clear, Captain,” said J’etris. “It shouldn’t take much prying, sir. They’ll know we’re the bigger threat.”
“Por favor, que así sea,” Trujillo muttered under her breath.
Jarrod looked across to J’etris. “You want phasers or torpedoes?”
“Torpedoes,” said J’etris, and flashed him a grin full of teeth.
“Phasers it is for me, then. You’ve fought them before, I haven’t. What should I be looking out for?” Jarrod asked pointedly.
“Close fast strafing runs. They’ll want to get behind and above us and target our nacelles,” said J’etris. “They’re maneuverable, too. Targeting will be challenging.”
Jarrod nodded, adjusting his auto-targeting algorithms accordingly. “That’s helpful, thank you.”
“Two minutes,” Naifeh updated, his eyes fixed on his console.
Trujillo looked to Chester. “You’d established they’re fanatics, not beyond suicide runs if the occasion warrants. May I presume there’s little point in offering them quarter if we’re somehow able to cripple their vessel?”
“Even if we persuaded them to surrender, we’ve never been successful in replicating ketrecel white–the drug the Dominion engineered them to be dependent on.” It was an ugly thing to acknowledge. “We’d just be condemning them to a longer death, and they know it.”
“Fair enough,” Trujillo acknowledged. “My conscience is sated.”
Chester’s wasn’t, for all it was an inescapable conclusion, but she kept it out of her face. In her opinion, it was one of the worst things about the Dominion–with the Jem’Hadar, they forced you into the same merciless calculations they reveled in–they made you think like them.
“Ull’roall is taking additional damage,” DeSilva reported. “Reading multiple hull breaches and their shields are failing.”
“Hold on a little longer,” Glal coaxed from his seat, not realizing he’d uttered the thought aloud.
Chester glanced at him, sympathetic. They were her thoughts exactly.
At the sixty-second mark Trujillo activated the intra-ship to address the crew.
“This is your captain. In less than a minute we’ll engage an enemy vessel that has already consigned one Starfleet crew to oblivion today, the brave compliment of the cutter Greyhound. This enemy is unlike any threat we’ve faced previously, and we must give them our very best. This ship was designed for battle, and like all of you it has been forged in conflict and tempered in many prior engagements. I ask each of you to perform your duties to the utmost of your ability so we may vanquish this foe and restore the peace. Trujillo, out.”
“Twenty seconds,” Naifeh intoned, activating his seat restraints.
Chester followed suit.
Trujillo glanced over at Chester, sighed, and activated her own, commanding, “Okay, our future friends are right. Buckle-up everyone.”
At the two standing tactical stations, integrated support frames for the occupants’ legs and lower back slid up and around them out of the deck, clamping around their legs and torso. J’etris stiffened, glanced at Chester. Clearly, she would have appreciated more of a warning about historical safety features.
Glal leaned in toward J’etris. “Sorry, we just had those added.”
Jarrod’s hand hovered above his console. “Weapons lock, Captain?”
“Affirmative, lock weapons. There will be no challenge hails, they’ve already demonstrated their intent clearly enough.”
Heeding her chief engineer’s advice on the stresses the new configuration would place on their shield-grid, only at the last moment did Trujillo order them raised.
Naifeh began the countdown to sub-light, “Dropping out of warp in four, three, two… one.”
* * *